Night Beat # 12
Chestnut cockroaches
and the folks
with "dance-fever"
outside the new
hotel listening to
"Night Beat #11;"
they don't like
Night Beat #1, Night Beat #2, Night Beat #3, Night Beat #4, Night Beat #5, Night Beat #6, Night Beat #7, Night Beat #8, Night Beat #9, or Night Beat #10
I'd rather
listen to the rum
tum-tum of the
shapely mama drum.
Movies to watch,
concerts to attend,
the down-right
mess of a
drive to Baltimore.
I'm taking 87
instead of 40
this time. Kerouac
says to only
get drunk in
your own home
but Tony's home
is on his
back. He's a
freeborn and I
am too. Empowered
by the clouds
watched in this
car, I found
a box of
chardonnay in the
rest stop port-a-potty.
Norbits on the
lobby flat screen.
Julia's shelf full
of thrillers and
"Middle Eastern" cookbooks
is falling down.
I wear Abbas's
thick black sunglasses,
but what else
can I do?
Four flats and
no jack but
I think I've
got some napkins
in the glovebox.
The matchbook from
The Blue Room
that says, "Don't
mention it,” is
all out of
matches. That
mug with chopsticks
and mechanical pencils
that says, “Africa Africa Africa Africa Africa,”
that mug with
the drawings of
a geometric elephant,
flamingo, cheetah, and
giraffe. I counted
nineteen boats while
reading diagrams on
the matrix of
Jungian alchemy. Gina
won’t like "Waka/Jawaka."
And I'm still
wearing those sunglasses.